


A Renaissance of Human Emotion

by epicionly



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: AO3 Fundraiser Auction, Gen, M/M, Missed Opportunities, Spock Prime Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-27 16:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1717850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epicionly/pseuds/epicionly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this story, there are far too many missed opportunities. Perhaps, there will be one more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Renaissance of Human Emotion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiona/gifts).



> AO3 Auction Fic that is long overdue for Fiona! Theme was Missed Opportunities.
> 
> Alpha: [Syph](http://spookymormonheckdream.tumblr.com)  
> Beta: Momo (who also made the banner for me!)
> 
> EDIT: You can still read, but a heads up that betaing is still in progress! (also including trying to fix wonky formatting) When it's done, I'll take down this edit.

 

**\--**

**Renaissance**

**n.The revival of learning and culture**

\--

_The transporter room of a Constitution-class starship is easily one of the most significant within a starship. With the upgrade, the transporter provides a five times faster beam-up rate than the old ships and logically becomes the busiest. Spock, however, will perhaps never truly need to experience them enough to appreciate them. Anything that requires his on-ship presence is minimal and few in between. Otherwise, as the heads of each department tend to field files and requests towards him to the point of inconvenience every time he beams up, Spock takes to having anything requiring his signature and approval forwarded to his personal PADD, and works mostly from his office instead of on the ship._

_Within a week the ship will be ready for a five year mission, and every part of the repairs and occasional ship inspection follows schedule. The crew, mostly unchanged, are all well acquainted with serving with Spock by now. The new Captain, however, is not. Thus, Spock finds himself stepping off the transporter pad at 1200 hours._

_Spock takes to the responsibilities required of a First Of_ ficer _well enough. A small degree of diplomacy and compromise are ideal when it comes to often dealing with unorthodox tendencies. To some extent, he is reminded of the rather polite smile employed by former First Officer and Helmsman, now Commander, Number One upon news of her reassignment and her congratulations of his own promotion. He suspects acceptance of this summons, in all of its informality, is nothing short of laying down the precedent of how he will be expected to deal with Captain Kirk in the future if not soon._

_The hallways and departments of every deck are filled with crew members, engineers, and Starfleet personnel checking, surveying, and auditing. Spock passes by routine crew examinations and equipment maintenance under senior officer supervision and assignments, and finds himself constantly called for,  between different shifts and different personnel that could otherwise be indirectly dealt with through their busy team leaders. The Enterprise is not by any means the largest of Federation vessels; but the starship is its current best and fits an optimum enough number at any given time._

_Captain Kirk is as he said he was: on the observation deck. He appears to be enjoying the view, despite the starship itself still in spacedock. As soon as Spock steps beside him, he turns with a smile so wide that Spock might almost think it was warranted by something more than his mere presence_ _._

 _“_ _Captain,” he says instead of inquiring, inclining his head politely._

 _“_ _Mister Spock,” the Captain responds back,  seeming charmed for some reason, if the warmness to his tone is anything to go by. “It's a pleasure to finally talk to you outside of that function.”_

 _“_ _Indeed,” Spock acknowledges, “though I must admit I do not fully understand why on the ship itself.”_

_Kirk chuckles amiably. “I like to get to know my crew, and they've been telling me you haven't set foot on the Enterprise all week.” A grin appears on his face as he glances up and meets Spock's eye. “I figured it might have been past your due.”_

_“_   _I have been otherwise occupied by my work.”_

 _“_ _I don't doubt that you have been, Commander.” Smoothly, and smiles again. “But let me say that I'd like to know who I'll be working with more than your reports tell me. Walk with me.”_

_Spock, for all instances, is slightly puzzled.  He stays pace by pace with the Captain as they leave the observation deck and step into the turbolift, and still lacks any sort of understanding to what it is that Kirk expects from him.  The obvious answers are there, but Spock suspects that Kirk perhaps means something else._

_He ends up with,_ _“I am not sure what you mean, Captain," and raises an eyebrow._

 _“_ _Space, Commander.” The Captain gestures grandly as they step out onto the science decks. They pass by the first two labs fairly slowly enough that they're hardly given a second glance by the scientists who rush back and forth from station to stat “What is your opinion on what we’ll going to be doing out there?”_

 _“_ _The starship_ Enterprise _is a diplomatic and exploratory vessel.”_

 _“_ _We say diplomacy and exploration. We assume there is something out there for us to find. The answer, the unknowns, waiting to be discovered. Wouldn't you say, Mister Spock?”_

 _“_ _That is agreeable.”_

 _“_ _And yet, expecting them to be different without much similarity, and similar enough that we can connect with them. We’ve specified the definitions of life and civilizations, but come this journey, we’ll really see the variance of cultures and beliefs and ways of living.” He turns to look at Spock as though seeking some sort of confirmation or denial._

_Spock folds his hands behind his back. “Might I inquire if you are asking after the science of it, Captain?”_

_“_ _Yes, that would make sense, wouldn't it.” Kirk smiles again, this time wry, as he walks them through a different lab._

_Some of Spock's own senior team is working here on transferring and processing the data from Starfleet into the computer's own databanks.  Between tables covered in rows and rows of samples and files, Spock accepts a PADD from a lieutenant as he walks by, and sets it into the crook of his arm._

_“It makes you almost wonder if we’re searching for something a little bit more.”_

_“_ _More?”_

 _“_ _If curiosity is what drives us to go where no man has gone before, then what amount of knowledge will fulfill us? What reaches of the universe? And then what after that? What if we‘ve found the end of the line and we’ve just never known it?”_

_Philosophical, Spock notes._

_“‘_ _What ifs’ do not satisfy me, Captain.” One hand grasping the PADD at his side, and the other one placed on top of it so that it does not slip, Spock turns his gaze out. The idea of purpose is aesthetically pleasing, he supposes, but Spock's own opinion is perfectly objective enough that it holds no real interest to him. “I am a scientist. It is not the quantity, but the specifics of what is unknown that fascinates me.”_

 _“_ _I’d like to believe that my new First Officer enjoys space a little bit more than for knowing the scientific readouts and numbers.” Kirk smiles, never at all daunted. “The adventure, perhaps.”_

_Spock raises an eyebrow. “You are aware this is primarily a scientific exploration vessel. ‘Adventure’ does not often fit the description.”_

_“_ _The_ Enterprise _, a scientific and diplomatic exploration vessel flying under the flag of the Federation to the unknown and unexplored. If there’s any adventure to be had, she fits right in the description.”_

_An animate pronoun. “A rational flow of logic.”_

_Kirk quirks an almost knowing smile. “You can’t tell me yourself that your travels haven’t led to more than interesting events.”_

_In that moment, Spock thinks perhaps Kirk intuits a slight deal similarly to Fleet Captain Pike. “Perhaps,” he replies. Noting that Kirk’s movement has begun from leisurely pacing to a direct route to the doors of the officer's lounge, he follows. “Will you be touring the rest of the ship, Captain?”_

_“_ _Oh, no, I’m afraid I’ve already taken up more time in your company than necessary. In fact, I’m sure quite a few of the crew is probably running around looking for a signature.” Kirk sits down, sounding almost as captivated as he looks. “She’s a wonderful ship.”_

 _“_ _Indeed.”_

 _“_ _Mr. Spock,” Kirk says suddenly, with a tone of voice  Spock will come to associate with unprecedented glee and delight. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were amused.”_

 _“‘_ _Amused’, Captain?”_

 _“_ _Indeed,” Kirk seems willing to accommodate him, his eyes crinkling. “It's some form of happiness, I’ve heard. Happiness, of which I’m sure you’ve heard of in some inane Vulcan pub out there. Talking about it, discussing its very existence, analyzing it to the core. Perhaps it would be a pastime to argue this fallacy of mankind in our never-ending pursuit of it.”_

_He is a poet, Spock thinks. Eloquent, though not entirely idealistic. A slight difference from Admiral Pike’s ways. “I would not know enough to make a comment,” Spock responds finally._

_Captain_ _Kirk laughs. It seems he recognizes Spock’s intention enough. “Dismissed, Commander. Don't keep that paperwork waiting.”_

\--

In another world, in another universe, the possibilities of that window had been narrow, and then had broadened to the point of ambiguity.

So it was that their friendship had passed with casual remarks and time spent companionably in the five years; in the three years after the five-year mission, it had been a period of silence and distance instigated by himself, only ended when Spock had sought the answer to why he could not and would not fulfill Kolinahr. And in the time since, it had been yearly celebrated birthdays between three, the grey decades known on heads of blond and brown, until it was Spock’s head too that shared the same fate.

The Jim of his memories is earnest and takes great enjoyment in playfully inquiring after Spock’s relationships. _That_ Jim had most likely suspected, but never pushed for answers beyond jest. Content with the balance, Spock had never seen a need to desire further. He knew what his old friend had been like—what would have been too much to ask, just as Spock knows what the Jim in this universe is not.

\--

“You will remain on this planet,” Nero says, “And you will see your people die as mine have.”

_\--_

The frost bites at his bones even under the jacket, thick and insulated enough to preserve his heat and moderate his body temperature—sufficient enough to keep him alive. His breath casts shadows in the near darkness of the cave that stretches open, mouth-like. Chill settles at the base of his spine. It halts his movement and makes it laborious to force a sufficient amount of oxygen into his lungs.

Spock closes his eyes. He leans over and takes measured, half-shuddered breaths.  The low temperatures belie a quiet lethargy for him, though that in itself has never been anything new. He pushes through it, numbing the sensitivity his body feels to the cold as much as he is able without suppressing it. The years have been long, and Spock’s dedication to meditation has done well for him. Once he regains himself, he continues forward.

Spock will avoid the Starfleet outpost if he can. Snow and ice crunch unevenly under his boots. Hard ice surrounds him in the natural formations, and stalactites from the cave ceiling remain frozen. There exists no tenant so far that he need take mind of. Wind scarcely reaches the isolated area, and with the hengrauggi populating the planet outside, it appears to be the best option.

Ripping open the emergency packs, Spock dismantles them, sorting through the materials, and divesting them of unnecessary attachments. It is clumsy and difficult work with thick gloves on.

The small flame spreads light throughout the near darkness. He allows himself a few moments to feel the bare trickle of warmth. It is scarcely enough to feel any form of true comfort unless he were to create a fire, but the total of Spock’s resources do not afford that luxury if he is to remain here for a long time.

Barely enough, he thinks, to keep him alive.

There is nothing flammable available on Delta Vega. Nero has allowed him minimal supplies and nothing grows upon the barren planet for Spock to gather. Evidence that it once did is found deeper in the cave when he scouts through it, but none of it is useful to him now.

Cold air scrapes against his lungs when he takes a breath, and as he digs the remaining snow from the hollow of the cave, the earth shakes. No—not the earth. On Delta Vega, there are planes and layers of frozen ice and land. In Spock’s universe, it was a planet of rocks, crystals, and minerals. The temperature is sub-zero, the jacket forcefully bundled up to his neck barely enough—but of course, Nero would rather he be alive to feel it, bear witness to a genocide, than die on a planet of ice—but it is nothing compared to the chill of isolation. Spock has had a century.

He hears it then, the triumphant cry of the hengra, and grabs the torch without much preamble and rushes to the cave entrance. It is a predator; it survives in this desolate ice planet and possesses the means to rip a man limb from limb.

The hengra roars and shies away at the  flame he waves in his face, releasing whatever prey it might have eaten.

A humanoid figure, draped in Starfleet emergency wear, scrambles to his feet.

“The Hengra,” Spock speaks, in the sudden silence. “Notoriously afraid of heat.”

“Hey.” The other man turns, clearly winded. “Thank you.”

 By now, Spock has recognized his face. 

In between the layers, a solid weight rests on his chest where his Vulcan heart is not.

\--

Jim.

\--

Jim is young.

There is not much luxury to talk. And yet, Spock understands too Jim’s doubts and suspicions. It would be erroneously bold to assume that for anyone but Jim.

The mind meld, no matter its purpose, shall always have some unintentional form of two-way transference if one’s mental shields are not up—and Spock’s are well too broken. Over and over again he hears the echo of many psionic voices in telepathic scream.

Jim, whose mind speaks of unending brilliance, possesses little in the way of shields and much in the way of self-sabotage. That Jim doubts himself troubles Spock. That Jim himself cannot see the impact and the potential he can and will inflict and possess saddens him as well. That Jim fears so much abandonment—Jim’s mind takes on Spock’s emotions far too easily, as though grasping for anything else rather than what it possesses.

He would take everything, Spock knows immediately, offered or not.

Spock closes his eyes, and Jim’s own begin to weep.

\--

The sickbay is white, not yellow and red.

The temperature rouses him up first, higher than it had been on Delta Vega, and his vestments changed into a warm robe and his blankets thick. The air itself is humid, kept heated within a small force-field generated from the biobed.

Spock has never forgotten what it is like to wake in a sickbay. Yet decades has it been since he has opened his own eyes and quietly observed the lustre of the walls, the monitors now hovering as holos over the biobeds and beeping softly as his chest rises and falls. The once familiar now feels almost foreign to him, an eidetic memory that holds no such claim over this reality. He feels disconnected enough with his planet and people that it almost overwhelms him.

Nurse Chapel had always been overtly considerate in making him comfortable with a predisposed fondness, and the good doctor always seemed to enjoy a jibe or two once he was awake. It had been years since Spock had attended their funerals, but he entertains the possibility that this now might be a dream, however much Vulcan dreams are made solely of memories or nothing at all. Only the almost shiny walls, the throb of his arm, and the near silence that pervade a still area tell him to expect otherwise.

A nurse comes over to check on him. Spock allows himself to be sat up and scanned with a tricorder, politely waiting for the readings to be registered before he makes an inquiry.

The nurse is gentle, but talkative. His companion sent out a signal on his behalf (Keenser, Spock thinks). The starship is the _USS_ _Mercy_. The patients in the sickbay with Spock are many, recovering in this warp-capable facility short-term until something more long-term can suffice. Spock himself is being treated for hypothermia and psychological trauma, and kept for regulation and observation. As there is no Vulcan specialist aboard, he will be transferred to the _USS Enterprise_ in a few days.

“What’s your name?”

“Selek,” he answers. In turn, she does not ask why a Vulcan was on Delta Vega. The survivors of Vulcan space are few and in between.

“You're in good hands with us,” she tells him instead, before she draws quietly to another curtained area in the next moment to say the same thing. A shaking hand with a medical bracelet reaches out in the gap, and without a word, the Betazoid clasps it.

Spock settles back onto the raised back of his biobed and folds his hands on his lap. He shuts his eyes. Yes, he thinks. Emotionally compromised.

\--

He wakes again. Not in the compound of his youth with its minimalist walls and the heat of the Vulcan surface temperatures bearing down upon him, but in the slight coolness and the still of the air of an artificial environment. For a few moments, he simply breathes. It takes him slight seconds to accord himself. He is neither in the hospital starship, nor in the same _Enterprise_ from his own memories, and at the side stands the Jim of this universe and another who is likely to be Doctor McCoy.

“—ome slack, Bones. I’ll be more careful.”

“I’ll cut you some slack, all right,” McCoy grumbles, folding his hands and looking altogether very put-out about this whole scenario. “Eat your damn greens next time and don’t take other people’s food. Your immune system is some kind of cosmic joke.”

Jim fumes. His shoulders raise and his arms are folded in a defensive gesture. Vulcans do not often sympathize with irrationality, but Spock understands Jim’s evasiveness.

“If I may interrupt,” he begins, and then allows a moment.

The two of them glance over at Spock. This sight is familiar and yet not to him; Spock has not witnessed it in a very long time. Jim rushes over immediately, no doubt using Spock as a welcome excuse.

“Hey.” His eyes are warm and his grin is wide. Heavier bags since the last time Spock has seen him sit under his eyes, but he looks marginally happier. His hair appears recently shorn for a regulation haircut. “You’ _re_ in _Enterprise_ ’s sickbay now for a little something extra. Bones insisted.”

“Starfleet sent us too late for my liking,” the good doctor gripes, marking violently in his PADD as though it had done him a grave injustice. Spock supposes it has, if the unanimous difficulty bartering over Jim’s dietary restrictions is still a constant in this universe. “With all the starships destroyed and the few that survived on the shuttles— _USS_ _Mercy’_ s so damn out of date I could cry myself to sleep.”

“Something extra,” Spock repeats quizzically, looking at them both.

“For you? Exhaustion, to be precise,” McCoy states, after brushing the screen a bit more to change the readings of Spock's monitors to his file. The wrinkles on his face are fewer, though the ever present furrow remains. “Which normally would just be a minimal concern, if it weren’t for your age and everything else going on. How long?”

“I bet you anything they’re great at hiding it,” Jim replies so casually that one might have missed him deliberately interrupting the question.

“It would be indeed because we are very good at hiding it,” Spock acknowledges, for the guilty purpose to startle Jim into laughter, and to further move the conversation away from what is simply age catching up to his body, nothing more. As they both know Doctor McCoy, it is best not to overexaggerate.

Jim smiles a little more, showing a bit more teeth. “Hey, that’s good to know. I actually was half-convinced that the Vulcans need less sleep than humans do is a lie.” A pause. “Damn, Bones, what did you give him? He’s giving me the eyebrow.”

“A slap when you weren’t looking,” Doctor McCoy replies dryly. “Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you should on the bridge?” He’s younger, Spock marvels. The set of his mouth and the slight squint of the eye as he judges the monitor are familiar and yet foreign.

“Oh yeah,” Jim nods, mollified. “I do have that. But you also realize we’re just in Federation space.” He can see it. The instant Jim entertains the idea and then gives up any pretence. “We’re one of the few new warp-capable ships,” he adds, to Spock. “And don’t worry, Spock’s got the conn.”

“Why you’d give it to a pointy-eared bastard who’s got it out for your ass is beyond me,” McCoy replies, though his voice is something his younger self would no doubt be unable to interpret. Spock recognizes it for what it is:; conflicted, affectionate and a little exasperated.

“I would’ve given it to Sulu,” Jim defends, hunching up his shoulders slightly and frowning, and then redirects his gaze to Spock. “But I figured we should have a talk after you woke up about what you were doing.” Pointedly, perhaps, his frown disappearing and intent expression on his face. “Cause, y’know, the universe _not_ imploding.”

There is a warning underneath those words. Almost, perhaps, as though Jim is testing him. “Indeed.”

“So you admit it,” Jim says neutrally.

“I would not deny it,” Spock acknowledges. Unless there is reason, though he has no doubt Jim is aware of that as well from the unblinking stare he is presented with.

“Do I want to know?” McCoy asks loudly from where he’s scribbling down the readings to his PADD. “Should I leave you two alone?”

“That’d be great, thanks,” Jim says, and waits patiently until McCoy is out of earshot before he turns onto Spock, face changing from pleasant to polite. It is a look that Spock has not seen in years; and perhaps it is erroneous to assign memories and the like to Jim’s face, but Spock has never been one to forget.

“What is it you wish to say?” Spock prompts, when it becomes fairly obvious Jim intends for him to start first.

“I should be mad,” Jim says instantly, bluntly. Finesse, it appears, is not his forte. “But I’m not.”

Spock waits.

“You going to say anything?”

“I have first-hand knowledge that until you have said all that you feel needs to be said, I should not interrupt.”

Jim groans almost childishly. He slouches a bit more before reaching over to drag a stool by the bed. The exhaustion that McCoy had diagnosed Spock also extends to Jim, Spock thinks. Jim drags a hand through his hair, lowers his head, and looks up at Spock without a smile. His hand trails down to rest at the back of his neck. “How much did you tell him?” he asks, half-demands. “What does he think of everything?”

 Spock studies him. Jim’s eyes are intent, and hardly react when Spock speaks. “I am afraid I do not speak for him.”

“I’m not asking that.”

“And what is it you ask of me truly?”

The directness throws Jim off. He hesitates, likely deliberating whether or not to respond in similar fashion, and slowly says, “Other you would say making optimum use of my resources is a good idea.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “You have never convinced me that your thinking is in anyway dependent on that of myself.”

For a moment, Jim’s face is empty of every tell, sans the flicker of his eyes. He is deliberating, Spock thinks, about pressing or not.

A darker shadow of the mirror universe that Spock had never thought he’d seen elsewhere again passes over his face. “Worth a shot.” Jim’s face smoothes out into a smile. “What about you? How have you been doing since?”

“I am functional,” Spock acknowledges. “Though as you know, I am not as well as I desire to be.”

“Yeah,” Jim nods. “It’s the same for other you. And Pike.”

Christopher Pike; it has been years since Spock has heard his name spoken. It has been further years since the one from his world had passed away on Talos IV. What little he knows of the situation, the rest he can ascertain from Jim’s expression. “He is—?”

“Snoring his ass off,” Jim says, glancing sideways at a curtained off area of the sickbay, then hesitates. “He was awake earlier, but in pain. Bones said no visitors.”

“I would assume that had not stopped you.”

A wry grin. “Yeah. He chewed me out big time.” His gaze is distant; he stares at his hands. An almost identical picture to the sight Spock had seen during the years he had served on the _Enterprise_ , when the same man had found himself lost.  “I’m just—” Jim looks up back at Spock.

“What are the details?”

“His spine’s kind of messed up,” Jim says. “He’s either going to be in a wheelchair or with a cane for the rest of his life.”

“He may not ever serve on a starship again,” Spock concludes correctly.

Jim flinches.

 “Let’s move on,” he says briskly. “How are you?” It is a normal defensive mechanism for him, so Spock entertains him as he is able to in the time until Jim’s shift is to begin.  They speak about the _Enterprise_ , the current set-up about which resources are being regulated where.

The tension outfitting Jim’s shoulders dissipates somewhat as he gets distracted. Jim’s streams of thoughts are quick, rapid. His hands gesture when he talks, and his knee moves, bounces. Eventually he gets up from his seat and paces. He gestures, short turns on his heel in mid-march. His regulation boots stop at one corner of the deck, he turns himself to lean against the wall and shrug his shoulders, and for all that the Jim that Spock had once known had been steadier, the resolve in this one extended out more than his responsibilities as the ship’s acting captain. The eye cannot look away.

Jim is engaging in all aspects, curious, and very talented in the methods he employs to get the information he wants. He would never manipulate Spock, but past experience, Spock hazards a guess, has driven Jim to get all that he can from what he is allowed, and for Jim to share what it is that he considers fair.

“They brought up databanking,” Jim says suddenly, before he is to leave. “Starfleet’s got what they still on backup, but you’re going to need to rely on all the able Vulcans including the Elders and Council about what’s not in there. Not sure when, but that’s happening. Maybe some time after we arrive at spacedock in a week. I thought you might want to know.”

“Thank you,” Spock says. Already he considers what it is that he does have to share in preservation of his culture and realizes that his younger self would unerringly have to be among those contacted.

Jim stops. “That’s it?”

“Was your purpose not to inform me?”

As odd an ever a sight to see Jim ill-at-ease, he shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. His shoulders hunch as he sticks his hands into his pockets, and his eyes leave Spock’s, trailing towards some obscure reading on the monitor. “Actually, I got Uhura to tell me. Spock was supposed to talk to you, but I figured it coming from me first might be better.”

An unspoken warning, Spock supposes. “You need not consider me when following protocol or any orders you may be given,” he replies. He is unfamiliar with the bridge crew of this universe, he realizes; much may have changed for them the same way that it has for Jim and his alternate self.

“No, I do.” Jim’s head snaps up and the fierceness returns, indignant at Spock’s suggestion. “You deserve to know and decide on whether or not you’d want to share. That’s why you lied to me before, right? You didn’t want to get involved.”

It is obvious that Jim’s mind remains on Spock’s insistence that his other self not be informed of the origin of the orders, and that Jim has spent more than ample time thinking and considering. Spock stays quiet before he speaks, mindful of the implications of this alone. For any Jim in any universe, he has never needed to tread softly, and so it is with this knowledge that he confesses, “I have long since lost my right to be selfish.”

“Yeah.” Jim nods stiffly, as though he wants to say something more, but stops himself. “I figured that. But I just thought you might like to prepare yourself for it, that’s all.”

“Thank you,” Spock says again in his appreciation, warmed by the concern. When Jim doesn’t respond, lingering, Spock pauses to contemplate. “Is there anything else, Captain?”

Before him stands not the Jim Kirk that Spock remembers. Partial enough to his own personal demons, this Jim seemed to thrive on acknowledgement. Rather than a game, it was a necessity. Conversation was not small talk.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” Jim blurts. “I—on Delta Vega. I sent out a request as soon as I could, but there was this whole backlog of Starfleet procedure that I didn’t know about—”

“Jim,” Spock says gently, “you do not need to apologize to me at all. I understand.”

The guilty look on his face does not subside, and it does not appear that Jim knows how to gracefully accept forgiveness given unconditionally. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” Jim says, shifting on his feet. He looks as if he might run at any moment, but steels himself and refuses to look away. “Really.”

“I appreciate it.”

An odd silence follows.                                                        

“So. I have to go.”

“I understand.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Going.”

Spock looks on, amused. “To the bridge, I have no doubt.”

“Yeah.”

“I have every desire to converse with you again.”

There is that pleased look in Jim’s eye and a happy grin explodes in relief. “Yeah. Me too.” He looks too young, smooth skin where absent laugh lines would have creased his tired eyes.  Spock’s eyes fall to them despite this. “I’ll see you later, sir. Rest well.”

\--

_T’Pring updates him politely after his inquiry as to her relationship with Stonn. “It is as I have expected it would be,” she replies. “Nothing else.”_

_“_ _That is acceptable,” Spock replies._

 _She blinks, this Vulcan whom Spock has known of since childhood, as though the string of his thoughts confuse her. Perhaps if it had been decades ago that Spock would have granted this. In youth they had never kept in communication, and had known each other as strangers. It was by chance, a visit home while the_ Enterprise _was spacedock bound that prompted him to comm upon her for some tea that they now sit here; T’Pring had accepted, invited him to her home, and that, perhaps, spoke all that was necessary towards their relationship._

_His thoughts do not much baffle her now, Spock knows, so much as she finds him still odd._

 _“_ _You’re all work and no play, is that right?” the Captain would tell T’Pring._

_Her ancestral home is similar to that of Spock’s own, however somewhat smaller—Stonn would have moved into this matriarchal household, though what decorations Spock is aware of seem to be of solely T’Pring’s touches. It is peaceful here, he reflects, though strange, traditional emblems and screened walls with few plants.  His mother was privy to not only Vulcan scrolls and tapestries, but more colourful means and possessions strewn artistically throughout the house._

_Spock begins, after a point, “I intend to undergo Kolinahr once I have resigned from Starfleet.”_

_Her face is neutral, but she inclines her head. “Admirable,” T’Pring replies, and he has no doubt she is sincere, for all that she has no true interest in his ambitions or his plans. “Though why you would plan to do so is unclear. I do not follow your logic.”_

_“_ _And I, yours,” Spock responds, lifting an eyebrow. “You harbour no fondness for me.”_

 _“_ _I harbour respect for you,” T’Pring responds coolly. “Partiality is unnecessary.” She drinks her tea, calm. “I simply do not believe that Kolinahr is a path that most Vulcans would have expected from you.”_

 _“_ _I assume you are not ‘most Vulcans’.”_

 _“_ _I do not need to be overly familiar with the attributes that characterize to know you,” T’Pring says. “You are S’chn T’gai Spock. Your reputation and accomplishments alone speak for you.”_

 _“_ _Your wording suggests a conversance to me, my personality and my tendencies,” Spock replies. “None of which you are commonly mindful.”_

_Unimpressed, T’Pring raises her other eyebrow then lowers them both. “Indeed,” she replies. “This is not new knowledge to either of us.”_

_“_ _Is Kolinahr not acceptable that you would have me find an alternate pursuit?”_

_The disregard for his question is obvious. Anything he has to say, T’Pring is uninterested in following mostly. “You have entered Starfleet for something greater than could be offered on Vulcan. You would do yourself a disservice to remain anywhere but in space. I am only reminding you of your nature.”_

_The hour has gone quickly, Spock realizes. “You believe this,” he says after a while, studying her face. “That my place is not here, on Vulcan.”_

_“_ _I would not have said so if I did not. ” T’Pring raises her eyebrow again, and Spock must adhere to this._

_He thinks and wonders about her stance long after the pause has given way to a comfortable silence; his plans, he has not shared with anyone else, and for this reason alone, he supposes he had sought her input. Impulsiveness is becoming him, he realizes, and no doubt is due to the influence of serving with a crew comprised primarily of humans. However, her argument is sound._

  _Had T’Pring not received his comm ., Spock would have no doubt visited a few shops, visit the embassy, and remain in quiet meditation until the end of his leave when not working._

 _“_ _Would you like more tea?” T’Pring asks._

_It is illogical to reflect on what never was, but Spock considers for the smallest of moments, before replying, “I would be amenable.”_

\--

As they are touch telepaths, the proximity of one Vulcan to another can be both a blessing and a curse; the disjointed gather in different degrees. There is reason the Vulcans settled in clans even in the pre-Reformation era, though perhaps even more to press and argue. It is difficult; Vulcan minds reach out or reject connection entirely. Mourning does not come easily if at all to Vulcans. Little more, they struggle to rebuild amongst themselves.

However much Spock encounters them through his walks through the ship, he cannot fully embrace or connect with them. His presence is an uneasy anchor to some and a stranger mostly to those who remain. And to his father, who along with the Vulcan council, Spock is not the son that this Sarek has raised; he understands the unsettling nature of it. The years have at least been kind to him in understanding beings of all temperaments and sensitivities.

Spock’s younger counterpart, it seems, is unusually busy. He takes it as granted time rather than unfortunate.

Life on the _Enterprise_ is menial at best. They head steadily at warp factor one; one, to help distance Spock’s people from the emptiness of their planet and hopefully to help them anchor to something else, and two, to allow them time to reconnect and heal before anything more is asked of them by Starfleet command. Spock understands Doctor McCoy was very vocal about it, and therefore is grateful. The crew of the _Enterprise_ share their quarters where available, and Vulcans who are on suicide watch are placed under near constant supervision.

Rarely is the mess hall at all filled. Few stragglers continue, but Vulcans do not require as much sustenance, and those that meditate do so in groups instead of on their own. The recreation rooms have, without a word, been modified to Vulcan meditation chambers. As these rooms have often designed to have a multitude of uses, it is far likelier to see a congregation, or Vulcans even choosing to remain in here rather than their assigned quarters.

Spock spends as much time as he can with them once he has been semi-cleared by the doctor, and the little ones take to him, requesting politely his presence to oversee their meditation and his aid in resettling their minds. Their parents are lost or unable, and the others, like Spock, are not capable of more than a few at a time in between meditation, not wishing to risk their own emotional transference onto the young.

While Spock is not the strongest of them, he does what he is capable alongside the elders and the other experienced melders. And obediently, the children sit, their eyes fluttering closed as his fingers press to their psi-points, and their minds whispering in tangent with his.

_my mother my father my planet my bonds my my my broken my my my my my your your your our lost empty scream where where where forever_

_Tushah nash-veh k’dular,_ Spock tells them with each session as he anchors them. Some minds are utterly silent, and when he connects with them, they grasp onto his and channel his instead. It is a difficult process.

They fear and they weep and they mourn and they cry, unable to rediscover their control. The despair and the loneliness seep into Spock’s own mind long after, and he must meditate with them after to teach them to rebuild their shields and walls. Often they are quiet by the end of it, emotionally exhausted, and retreat back to the folds of familial robes or sit together side by side in pairs or groups without words. They are frightened and they are lost, and it is the others who are the same who must guide them.

It pains Spock to know it will not be the end of it; an entire generation will live broken and isolated from others. It is unlikely they will ever settle comfortably onto a new planet. They will live with it haunting their memories, and will scarcely forget it. And they will dream, as Vulcans specifically dream, of what was and had been.

When he is not in the recreation rooms, he seeks out members of the crew and speaks with them as an unofficial representative. The crew is very accommodating, despite what few there is to share and what little liberty there is. Though the Vulcans pass each day quietly, the crew does not. They mourn in their own way over the loss of their own friends, classmates, and comrades, and Spock wishes only that he could offer more.

T’Lana, who was among her classmates in an off-planet excursion, often accompanies him. She is a ghost, seeking reassurance beyond what his melds with her can offer, and though it is likely better for her to remain with her peers, Spock believes no logic in refusing her what comfort she can obtain. The crew generally addresses her with smiles and questions on how she is, but Vulcan children are often silent in the company of strangers, and she hides behind his robes and says nothing outside of courtesy.

“Elder Selek.” It is Jim, and Spock is surprised to see him more exhausted than ever. “Good morning.”

“Captain. To you as well.”

Beside him, T’Lana says nothing, only clutches. Jim notices, as he is wont to do, and hesitates. He glances back at Spock as if to ask, and when Spock inclines his head, his expression clears.

“Hey,” Jim whispers, crouching down slowly. She stares at Jim without moving even when he is at eye-level with her, his arms folded on the tops of his knees. “How’s your meditation doing?”

She does not respond. Spock replies for her. “T’Lana has been well.”

“That’s good to hear,” Jim smiles, just as T’Lana speaks.

“My meditation has been doing sufficient as of late.” Her voice is soft, almost inaudible, but it seems Jim hears it. “I am functional.”

“Yeah. Functional is always good. Better than me, anyway. I heard you guys are running out of incense?” Jim asks.

She nods.

Then Jim glances back up at Spock. “I didn’t know whether or not to ask you or the other Elders. They’re putting Spock on lighter duties, but I’m pretty sure he’s disregarding it and putting a lot on his plate anyway.” He turns back to T’Lana. “Spock’s my First Officer.”

“Yes,” T’Lana murmurs. “Commander Spock.”

“T’Lana is one of the few who hoped to engage in Starfleet’s youth science program.”

“So you want to work on a starship?” Jim asks. “That’s okay,” he says, when she shakes her head. “Later’s probably better too.”

“The incense.”

“Yeah?”

“Please do not attempt to replicate them. The ones in the ship’s databanks are of little use to us.”

“We’re on a supply run right now,” Jim reassures. “So I’ll add that to the list. Did you have a specific kind you wanted?”

What control she has almost crumbles.

Jim closes his eyes instantly at his mistake and opens them. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and his regret is honest. “I didn’t intend for that.”

“I understand,” T’Lana says, but by now her eyes have lowered. Unreceptive to anymore conversation, her words are stiff. “Your apologies are acceptable, Captain. Thank you.” T’Lana steps closer to Spock’s side, with no further desire to share her thoughts.

Jim looks pale and uncertain as he straightens. He stands there for a few moments, and that is how Spock realizes that is the Jim right now; lost and unsure.

“I believe it is best if you depart now,” he says as gently as he is able. Jim nods jerkily, taking a step back without a word, and T’Lana’s shoulders relax only slightly.

It isn’t until a crewman asks after the Captain and he has to depart that any part of the insecurity disappears, washed behind a mask of confidence and authority that is not how he feels.

Spock glances downwards and observes T’Lana ever watching, her face solemn as ever and her grip on his robes tight.

 “Elder,” she says respectfully, voice quieter than it has ever been, “might I request we return to the recreation room?”

When they arrive, she is quick to return to the company of her peers from Spock’s side. They surround her, of all sizes and of all faces and of all sentiments, as though knowing, their hands on her arms and her shoulders and back in a Vulcan embrace.

\--

The bridge crew is busy, often absent from familiar haunts and casual interaction spaces—as the recreation rooms have been taken, the rest of the crew scatters along the corridors and fill the observation deck—so they are rarely spotted. As for Jim, Spock finds him in the early hours stumbling out from the mess hall.

“Is she okay?” Jim asks the instant he sees him. The circles under his eyes are darker, the looseness of his body movements almost palpable. Along the walls are small lights that indicate the paths, and what Spock sees makes it fairly obvious he would be welcome for some company.

He falls into step with him. “I assume you mean T’Lana.”

“Is she?”

Spock considers it. “She is well. Have you been slept in the last twenty-four hours, Captain?”

“Can’t. Pike’s under doctor’s orders not to do any work and Spock can’t handle everything on his own even if he wants to.” Jim shakes his head, rubbing his eyes. “But—are you sure? That she’s okay, I mean. You guys have so many definitions of being okay that I don’t—”

“Do you wish to speak with her?” They step into the turbolift together. As Jim is unlikely to select a specific location, Spock opts for deck twelve.

“I don’t want to mess up.” Body heavy, Jim leans back against the grip. He does not react nor move, even when the turbolift arrives at her destination. The door holds open before it slides shut. “I’m pretty sure she hates me by now, anyway.”

“Vulcans do not hate, Captain. She has long since forgiven you, if she had been unhappy before.”

Jim scoffs. “Yeah, pull the other leg.”

“As far as to my knowledge, I am pulling neither.”

The comment startles a laugh. “You’re really something, you know,” Jim grins, and then: “Was it this easy for him?”

“His preferred method of discussion was appealing for most,” Spock responds, and steps forward. Sensors open the door, and Jim obediently follows. “There was commonly little else desired.”

“You know that’s not what I asked.”

“The specifics I considered were as indistinct as your wording.”

“Not what I meant either,” Jim replies, and then laughs. For him, this conversation is easy and unstrained; no great expectations lie on his shoulders. He is keen to continue, leaning almost casually in. “I mean—just you and him. Talking. That was easy for both of you.”

Spock raises an eyebrow.

“You’re wondering about where I’m going with this.” Jim shrugs, lax and casual, drawing back as they wander into the deck. Windows around them were more open than they had been in Spock’s time, wide from top to bottom. The whole of space is visible to the eye by the magnification of the screens. “I actually have no idea. I just find it kind of strange, personally. How does that even happen?”

“You base your disbelief on your interactions with my alternate self.”

“He hates my guts.”

“As I have said—”

Jim waves a hand. “I know. Vulcans don’t hate. And I guess, maybe, _maybe_ , with how things are going, he hates me a little less. It’s hard to tell. You guys aren’t exactly the easiest to read.”

Once, Spock had come here with intention to understand his new Captain; now, he stands here simply to listen. “He is difficult,” Spock says carefully. A bold statement if anything to make, but one that seems to strike a universal chord.

“ _Difficult_?” Jim groans.

“I may have overstepped my bounds.”

“No, you’re not wrong. It’s—He’s railing on me for not understanding proper procedure. The stuff I learned in the Academy is two years out of date. I don’t know jack from squat, apparently.” He shakes his head. With a sigh, Jim pulls one of the chairs. “Sorry—I’d really like to be positive but other you’s making it hard.”

Spock hesitates to make any real addition to the complaint. It is hardly a moment to point out logic or offer advice, but rather, to express sympathy and repeat frustrations already made. What Jim seeks now is solidarity, not a consultation. “You make ample effort to compensate for your inexperience.”

“Yeah? Tell that to him. He thinks it’s about me needing to prove myself to him—like I don’t know he hasn’t gone through my psych tests and decided that’s what makes me.” Compliments do not appear to be what Jim searches for; he crosses his arms, fuming silently. “I don’t care about recognition. I just want to be able to do something and not feel like I’m out of my element. I want to do my _job._ ”

“Your frustration stems from his inability to discern that you are currently better placed at a location where you deem yourself equally competent or to acknowledge your unfamiliarity with procedure. Suggesting it would only justify his belief, and perhaps the rest of the crew’s, that you are not meant to sit in the Captain’s chair.”

Jim pauses, recycling that in his head. “See? _You_ get me,” he says finally, and then grins. “Keep that up and I’ll replace him with you, I swear.”

Spock inclines his head. “I must decline; I find I am satisfied as the original.”

Jim laughs and shakes his head. “Sit with me. Please.”

It’s a good night. However slowly or quickly the _Enterprise_ sped by in warp, Spock has only ever had the opportunity to quietly observe, but hardly in company. They played 3-D chess, he remembers, and he wonders whether that too is a constant in this world.

“Chess?” Jim wrinkles his nose. It is difficult not to express the amusement on his face, but Spock manages well enough if Jim’s laugh is anything to go by. “I don’t know, I’ve never thought about it.”

“You may find it stimulating.”

“Intellectually or hypnagogically?” Jim retorts. He slouches, legs spread casually wide, spine curving. His fingers tap on the arm rests. Spock finds his distaste strange, but not unpleasant. He expresses himself well, Spock notes.

“My alternate self is most likely a suitable match.”

“Yeah, no. I don’t dig this whole shebang right about now. Mostly, I’m trying to understand why we don’t work well together.” Jim thumbs the side of his mouth in thought. “I know we can. We did when we went to save Captain Pike. He went along with me once he got that stick out of his ass—no offense to you.”

“There is no offense where none is taken.”

There is an uncomfortable silence of embarrassment. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“The quotation served its purpose.”

Jim doesn’t respond, looking out at the stars without much of a response.

 The Jim Kirk of that period could not be assuaged by a half-hearted view of space. Jim himself had been fickle but loyal; whatever had caught his eye was subject to being the centre of his sentiments and emotions and drive, as had been the case with the _Enterprise_ , as had been the case with the women he had loved and the son he had lost. He inspired. He flirted. He taught. He charmed. But the reality had been that he never touched nor seemed to want for more other than what space and this starship could offer him, and Spock could never find it in himself to fault that as so many had done.

“Do you have time?” Jim asks, suddenly. “For dinner? Tomorrow, I mean. Well—tomorrow, today.”

“I am afraid I am in the middle of fasting,” Spock apologizes. “As would be your First Officer.”

“Shit. Yeah, you guys are, aren’t you.” Eyes shutting tight, he shakes his head. “Yeah, Uhura told me about that, can’t believe I forgot. What about after? After dinner? What are your plans?”

“I will be meditating,” Spock replies.

“What about after meditating?”

“Are you inquiring after something in particular?”

“Just—” A noise of frustration erupts. “Are you free? I want to talk to you again. One on one. In my quarters or somewhere quiet like this, preferably.”

Spock considers. The prospect of Jim’s company is an attractive idea. “I will be finished with meditation by 1800 hours if that is not amiss to you.”

Compelling is Jim’s request, that Jim still finds there is purpose in continuing conversation. Rare is the occasion that Spock would refuse it, if at all. Given that, Spock is surprised when there is no immediate response.

At last, Jim says, “Yeah, that’s fine.” His tone is even, but when he turns to look Spock in the eye, his expression becomes as brilliant as his potential.

\--

It has been three months since.

In an altered timeline, there are new regrets laced in with the old. Time and time again spent in meditation when he is not helping with the colony has allowed him to open and explore his thoughts. Inputting, sorting, and overseeing the plans for resettlement and rebuilding of the new Vulcan when he can, and advising the Vulcan Council when it gathers with him and the few sent to New Vulcan on vidcomm to discuss an ever-growing list of needs and requests otherwise occupies the rest of his time, but even Vulcans will rest. And when the time of rest comes and goes, and the sun shines against a non-yellow sky and few clouds, Spock will regret.

There is no one specific accurate word for ‘regret’ in the Vulcan language. Instead, the closest it comes is kept within a collective of definitions. First is fear. Along with fear is aversion. And with aversion comes concern. In Vulcan, ‘regret’ is hashed into _Kwes_ —being filled with concern or aversion, two opposite reactions, over possible regrets. Fearing what it is that you do not know for sure will or however will occur, whether or not you will be invested or not in its proceedings; emotional.

It does not need to be said that Spock regrets. And even more so, grieves.

For humanity, which values the strongest mix of both, grief is expressed and not contained. Moral dilemmas are more striking and difficult. Ethics, for all that they could be led by emotional necessity, are at the forefront and centre of these debates. Grief spilt over such ethics, however, are not general routine. Grief is an emotional, personal experience for them.

For a Vulcan, grief is a sentiment understood and recognized; a necessary step in a period of mourning, though dangerous in its stride. Cathartic it may be to humans; to a Vulcan, it offers no such comfort or solution. From grief is born actions, unchecked and driven by surges of emotion. A human may return easily, but a Vulcan risks losing control and being unable to return to a former state. Personal loss is difficult to overcome, and emotional control is difficult to regain once lost.

Perhaps it is an addition to his half-human nature; perhaps it is because for all of the humanity that he has known, the two that have embodied it so fully and so meaningfully for him are no longer. It is a stark reminder that who they were and what they knew are forever lost, and Spock grieves.

Humans do not possess a katra. Their spirits--'souls', as Doctor McCoy once called it, as Jim once referred to it--are lauded to be perhaps eternal or perhaps temporary depending on their various beliefs. They are short-lasting yet almost an effortless living. Senses muted to everything but the immediate world around them, and yet. All that they are, all that they have been—perhaps because Spock has what Jim once called an ‘eternal soul’ that he is at an impasse to wonder.

And for his own katra when his time comes, there is no one and nowhere to bequeath it. Mount Seleya is gone, as are the katra of countless generations of Vulcans. They will make a new empty hall to honour them, he knows, and to linger on what cannot be changed is foolish. The pain inflicted, however, will never be. The destruction of Vulcan was not like the scream of four hundred katras on the USS _Intrepid._ It was the eternity, the gaping emptiness. The absence multiplied, and Spock this time, indirectly responsible.

The young will know the losses.

Grief, Spock understands, often involves intense sorrow often associated or perhaps connected to the loss of a fellow being, not one of the individual. And there are many losses that Spock regrets. Blame is not an accurate choice or a reasonable decision to take. Yet for all of his actions, he cannot help but return to them, and in a measure, blame himself for the catastrophic results of one mistake.

His people mourn for the dead, the lives wasted, and the bodies of the deceased that shall never be recovered. Spock grieves otherwise, for more.

 _I grieve for_ thee; _I grieve for those who have been in your lives who are gone from you now who no longer may speak who do not have a voice who do will perhaps never hear these apologies and know what things may never pass; I grieve, also, for those of my own —_ Spock, for all that he is half-Vulcan, selfishly grieves.

He grieves for his people, for who have lost, the Vulcans who refuse to connect their minds and embrace the antithesis of their belief and shut themselves away for comfort, and those who grasp at anything that is offered and only find each other. He grieves with the knowledge of his own influence on the turn of events; the red matter meant to save one planet destroyed another.

He grieves for those lost, the lives of those whom he has encountered when he has lived and after he lived once more, the lives and katra of those who have passed or have never as they had before by this timeline’s standards. He grieves for his mother in both worlds, that she will never see her son and that her son, his younger self, will never see her, the stories, the possibilities, a long adulthood. He grieves for the brother he has lost. He grieves for the friends, for his planet, for all that was and all that never will be again.

And Spock grieves for Jim.

In Jim Kirk’s lifetime, he will accomplish many things. The parallels are constant, even if the time and age at which they are accomplished differ. Jim Kirk will encounter the worlds he has encountered by Spock’s side and or perhaps on his own. He will meet the people and he will shape new worlds into being. He will become more than Starfleet’s most prized captain; he will be the man whose whole life belongs in the stars.

Jim often spoke of the beach. This Jim is wholly different from the Jim Spock knew once upon a time. How odd was it, to have seen blue eyes where brown eyes used to be; how sentimentally disquieting to see complex compassion beyond his years and rawness colouring his mind and actions instead of confident belief, a quiet, settled authority, and a smile—but it matters not. Space calls to Jim no matter what universe and that is and remains constant.

It must be irrational to grieve for what still exists. But this Jim is not the Jim Spock has known. It is experience, it is the events and people in a certain combination, perhaps, that guide an individual to become who they become. The Jim he knew had joined Starfleet due to his father’s influence, had been a captain who valued rationality over impulse.

To say Spock has altered the timeline is simple. That Jim in this timeline now lacks everything he had before he had met Spock in his own timeline is something for which Spock can never forgive himself. He has robbed Jim of everything that would have been, robbed that which no longer exists and never shall again.

To say the least, what he does today and tomorrow—that is all he can do.

\--

 _“_ _You could have at least said goodbye to your father.”_

 _“_ _As I had said years ago,” Spock replies coolly, “I would not trouble you by visiting Sarek’s home in Shi’Kahr again. You honour me enough to confront me outside of it. ”_

 _“_ _I see you have not changed.” Perrin, red-faced though polite and young enough to be his great-granddaughter, is the widow of his father—someone who stood by and cared for Sarek long after Spock’s own mother passed away._

_Spock does not feel it necessary to explain himself to an outsider the complications behind anything that does not concern her. His dislike of her is illogical by Vulcan standards; her work is admirable. The strain in their relationship otherwise is in the conflict of their goals, personalities, and her constant assumptions both right and wrong concerning his intentions._

_Spock raises an eyebrow. “You are emoting.”_

_“_ _You left, Spock. Your father had Bendii Syndrome. One last time you should have seen him, to lay peace with him so he would not die with his regrets. If you could have known what he called out—”_

 _“_ _I still would not have arrived in time to hear him. I was on Romulus at the time and had I returned, the outcome would not have changed.”_

_Perrin shakes her head, disgusted. “Your pride. His pride. What is pride when there is no winner? Who won, when you did that? Did you feel any better?”_

_Spock has no reason to explain his purposes to her, his reasons. Her outburst obligates him to, and perhaps, if he wished, he might have sympathized. “I am Vulcan, Perrin.”_

_“_ _Of course,” Perrin replies shortly. “However it is you wish to see it. But Sarek, husband of mine, was one too.”_

_She takes the pot again, pours the mint tea she was so fond of into her cup, ignoring Spock’s which has not been touched._

_“_ _You have no excuse not to honour him now, for all of your disagreements with me or him_ ,” _she says at last. “Might I at least ask this?”_

\--

These days, Spock finds he is more partial to the beauty of nature, of emotion, of the simplicity of humanity and meditation in open air. Redundant observations are also by now Spock’s favourite kind, kept in between moments of private humour and the quiet solemnity of nostalgia and regrets. He supposes then in that way he becomes similar to the man he has always respected, and is all the better for it.

Space had been meant for them, but even then it satisfies little else emotionally. It is an isolating desire, parallel to the vastness of space, without true answer or equal.

New Vulcan is a planet rich in a vestige of aquatic life at the edge of desert biomes; oceans populate its surfaces where dry land and sand does not. Ecosystems vary no more diversely than they had on Vulcan, though volcanoes are rare and plant life slightly more plentiful, growing in almost stringy, sparse amounts on the coast. The planet possesses desert so much like the old; past the area they have claimed habitable for the colony, the shuttle passes over flat planes and on occasion sand dunes along the coast. There are trees with dry bark that do not flower—life that can be spotted from above—and the knowledge that this is not their place.

What once used to be a civilization here remains in almost haunting memory. Unpopulated for the centuries since its people disappeared, the ghost towns still speak. Empty farmhouses on the edge of the deserts; evidence of nomadic tribes only hypothesized when comparing the spreads of gathered data. The former people of Amniiba simply died out, quiet, without a trace.

When they touch down on a part of the larger desert and step out of the shuttle, Spock is almost hit with the stillness of the air. In a way, it is no more different than the deserts that lead to the mountains of Gol, humbling and calming in its isolated silence.

“You might almost think this planet Minshara,” Sarek states quietly as he passes an eye over their surroundings. Possibly, Sarek had considered this path, as Spock once had; there is a rare Vulcan that does not. “It shares many similar properties.”

Minshara. The name of old Vulcan. There will be no more opportunity to say it, he knows, outside of classrooms and the self-directed learning pits of this time, just as Amniiba will be given a new name to reflect its people. “Yes,” Spock responds, just the same. “No different from that of where I came from as well.”

Sarek does not respond, and neither does Spock find himself prepared to continue.

Sarek’s discomfort with him is understandable. He is not, Spock understands, attached more than necessary; but so it was by their standards that it was part of his identity. Without the child, the parent is not complete.  For a son who has long since rejected the Vulcan heritage as his father had expected, and sought his own path—Spock wonders.

The officers around them greet their comrades, who have already been present on the planet, having set up camp with instruments and tents. Their information will be passed on to Starfleet and to the Vulcans back at the starting colony, and will be used when it comes to help with rebuilding and construction, bringing resources and other necessary supplies, as well as the remainder of their people. Following the request from the Vulcan council, they had since adapted their primary mission to finding biospheres or areas in which they can be made, testing the sands and scanning for lifeforms and danger.

 “You told me you were an ambassador,” Sarek states. The attempt at reaching out rather than polite platitudes of yesteryear surprises him.  He does not look at Spock, however, and instead considers the landscapes before him. “Did you consider the Vulcan Science Academy?”

“I chose Starfleet,” Spock replies, hands folded behind his back. He makes neither move nor gesture. “My path was no different than that of your son, but it may well prove to branch away. I chose diplomacy after my retirement.”

“What did you seek?”

“Reunification,” Spock replies. “It was not without its struggles.”

“Romulus and Vulcan.”

“Yes.”

Sarek pauses, no doubt recalling Nero, though he is tactful enough not to mention it. “What was his opinion of your decision?”

“By that time, he had passed away.” He hesitates. To mention Bendii Syndrome, to acknowledge a part of the Vulcan who had lost himself and his own emotional control—no. It is not in his place. “We did not often share similar visions.”

What Spock knows of his own father, what Captain Picard has shared—it seems a distance in what he sees and what he knows. Arguments he held with the Sarek of his own universe may be the same as this one’s with his alternate self, or it may be different; it is all that Spock remembers so strongly when it pertains to his father, or to put a description to their relationship. Ironic that he does not know how to speak with him. His father is younger now, though that alone should not inhibit Spock’s choices.

Spock glances to the scientists who are now discussing the improvement of communication stations between Amniiba and possible delays. The others beside them are grouped in to discuss transportation, of resources and of obtaining materials for a colony to remain self-sufficient. They will soon ask after Vulcan opinion, but for now, it is unnecessary.

“It was only by proxy I learned his sentiments and his regrets.”

Sarek looks directly at him now. Spock meets his gaze, and feels old for yet another time. He recalls, in Picard’s mind, the echo of those emotions and sentiments. Of despair at disorder left once discipline did, at age and what it brought him— _There is nothing left but dry bones and dead friends. Tired, oh so tired—_ seeingweakness in emotion where his Vulcan desires came—and love. Anguish, regret.

To push this Vulcan to regretting a second time, the good doctor would call it heartlessness. And in this universe, Amanda Grayson is no more, and Perrin will not likely be born for another fifty-eight years.

“I know our way.” And what strict adherence to the way of life that Spock had sought his entire life, differed only by the end result and path. “And I know yours, though I do not speak for your son of this universe.”

There is no reconciliation here, in this alternate universe. Though Sarek judges him calmly, Spock may assume anything of the sort. It is an entire lifetime’s worth of disagreement and disputes of his own that he may guess in degrees to their pertinence here, and the Vulcan before him is not his father in technicality. Spock’s claim of any sort is in a distant connection.

“Say what you will,” Sarek says, finally. “I will listen.”

It is then that one of the officers asks after them both.

There is kindness still; the distance shrouded in ambiguity when Sarek addresses him at the end of the day, when Spock has finished speaking with a scientist concerned with the telepathic treatment available along with the ratio of Vulcan specialists.

The Vulcan council suggests building a temporary stronghold, Sarek informs him. The farmhouses will be used to withstand the storms, and construction workers and engineers will be sent from Starfleet. The colonists will be transported from Earth. Indeed, he makes neither indicator nor address to their former conversation; the part of Spock that remains human brims with quiet impatience.

It is not until they prepare to board the shuttle again, the scientists and officers busy with their equipment, that Sarek begins. “Spock.” His voice is not so clear to be heard, but neither too soft to be mistaken.

“Ambassador Sarek.” Spock turns to face him. Sarek’s face is drawn, his entirety in control. He is the Vulcan Spock remembers from too many arguments past, proud features stark on his face.

“I have not spoken to my son since we have left our homeworld,” Sarek responds, and folds his hands behind his back. “And from that point it had not been since he had chosen to reject his offer at the Vulcan Science Academy.” 

“I have spent a lifetime in conflict with my father,” Spock offers, when nothing further comes. “I do not desire for it further.”

Sarek’s eyes, so erringly Vulcan in their gaze, betray none of his thought, and demonstrate all of his control. “I have reason to believe that your father would have desired the same,” Sarek replies at last, and inclines his head.

\--

 _“_ _Penny for your thoughts?”_

_Spock raises an eyebrow. “A penny, Captain?”_

_“_ _Jim, you know a reference like that’s going to fly past his pointed ears,” McCoy gripes from where he sits, clutching a glass of illegal Romulan ale. Spock has already mentioned the highly intoxicating effects and been confidently reassured that such was the point of the matter. As much as he has learned these years that McCoy’s jibes are better interpreted as friendly, he wonders if his presence would be better suited on the bridge._

 _“_ _That’s why it’s our job to teach him,” Kirk responds amiably. He too holds a glass, sharing the doctor’s taste in alcohol, and most likely will need to be escorted back to his quarters by the time this evening is finished. Cheeks red, and very content. “Share with the class.”_

_McCoy snorts. “You want to go all Academy, do it on him. You’re six years too young to treat me like one of your students.”_

_Kirk merely salutes him with his glass, slight cheeky grin on his face, and takes another swallow._

_“_ _If you are inquiring an exchange for my thoughts,” Spock speaks, and Kirk’s eyes move to him, interested. “I am concerned about First Contact.”_

 _“_ _I think it went over very well,” McCoy comments. “You both made it back, no one got offended, and you’re not dead yet. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a diplomatic win.”_

 _“_ _May I thus suggest offence to be subjective?”_

_The Captain and the doctor share an exchange of expression. “If you’re implying something, Spock, you go right ahead and say it to my face.”_

_Spock raises an eyebrow. “Very well. You are offensive to me, Doctor.”_

_The startled laughter from the third member of this party arrives after a delayed silence. Unembarrassed, Kirk says, “He’s got you there, Bones. You are pretty crass.”_

_McCoy looks back and forth between the two of them, scowling. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he warns, shaking a finger. “I’m getting out while the going’s good. With my ale too,” he adds, taking the bottle. “You want more, you come do your physical, Jim. Spock, you can take my love and shove it anywhere you choose to, but you’re due for one too.”_

_“_ _All the liquor in the universe wouldn’t be enough, my friend,” Kirk replies with a dramatic swoop of his arm. It is impresses far less when he purposefully sits straighter and sucks in his stomach._

_McCoy rolls his eyes. “You keep your habits, and you’ll have a belly before you know it.”_

_“_ _Like a certain jolly old man in red, I’m sure,” Kirk laughs. “And if I’m not mistaken, I’m under the impression he really is required to responsibility one time a year.”_

 _“_ _Saint Nicholas, Captain?” Spock asks with a raised eyebrow._

 _“_ _Oh?” Kirk turns interestedly towards him. “I wasn’t aware you celebrated.”_

 _“_ _Ensign Chekov has been very verbal in describing it to me these past few days. It is his opinion that the best incarnation of Ded Moroz is of that in Russia.”_

_Bones scowls at them both. “Well, I’ll be. You’re made for each other.”  In a surprising turn of events, he leaves, clutching his bottles._

_“_ _Spock, you chased him off,” Kirk notes with a laugh, but is otherwise unbothered._

 _“_ _On the contrary,” Spock responds, “I have only established boundaries, such that are necessary. Else wise, I would be inclined to have expressed my disapproval in a more familiar fashion.”_

_Kirk pauses, and then his expression smooths into a warm smile shy of a flirt. “My, Mr. Spock,” he says, not raising head, but raising his eyebrows in any case. ”If you keep that kind of talk, any woman would be yours.”_

_“_ _Negative, Captain.” Spock inclines his head dismissively, slightly troubled by this jump in logic. “I am not seeking a relationship at this time.” The unpredictability of the Captain on a subject matter on which Spock does not require affirmation makes him uneasy._

_There is intent yet. Spock recognizes it; has observed it rather than bearing the partial brunt of it. No—brunt would be an inaccurate word to describe the entirety of the Captain’s focus. It would be—_

_He hesitates. That is all that he manages._

_“_ _Bridge to Captain Kirk.”_

_Kirk has looked away, hand on the control panel. “Kirk here.” The tone of his voice has changed._

_Whatever contemplations he had considered, it vanishes behind the visage of propriety. Captaincy and its responsibilities—this was James T. Kirk’s element._

_“_ _We are receiving a hail from the envoy ship.”_

 _“_ _Route it to my quarters, Lieutenant.”_

_For an instant, Spock spots it: the impatient expression before it resigns itself. “Lieutenant, the visual on my screen.”_

_“_ _They’ve cut the connection, sir.”_

_Kirk frowns. “Hail them back.”_

_“_ _They’re requesting to beam aboard. On all frequencies.”_

_Kirk meets Spock’s eye for the quickest moment. A manner of thoughts pass through them in that one moment, and Spock considers his own response, before Kirk pushes for the end of the comm. “We’re on our way, Lieutenant. I want to be updated as soon as I arrive on the bridge. Kirk out.”_

\--

Spock is selfish; however much he understands that this is no longer his adventure (his part to play, as it was, had ended many years ago), when the Vulcan Council forwards to him a copy of the request sent to Starfleet Command, he does not deny the assignment. Instead, he prepares for it, compiling data on PADDs, discussing with the stationed scientists and vidcomming Starfleet, as well the personnel on the _Enterprise_ , and forwarding all manner of reports and requests back and forth. Nostalgic as it is to hear Lieutenant Uhura’s voice, better still to be put on screen and sight the bridge crew of this period before him.

Sarek chooses to beam aboard the ship with his aides to see to their people and prepare them for what will be when they shuttle down. He offers without preamble the decision to remain planetside to Spock, and for that, Spock is grateful.

It is odd to see the crew of the _Enterprise_ again in person, though not at all unwelcome. Faces new and old adorn the crew. Some have served on other ships in his lifetime, others are absent. He passes his gaze over them as he welcomes them; for now they beam down from the ship in groups of five, according to their stations, and he greets them. The groups of available officers are divided, and Spock directs them with scientists and their coordinates.

Great pleasure fills him when he spots the Captain. At his side is First Officer Spock, who inclines his head politely, but falls short of comment about the planet. Even he is capable of sensing its history, and by the tricorder in his hands, suspects there to be more use of recording the sights here than none.

“Elder Selek, Spock,” Jim says, sweat already matting at his forehead. He looks no better since Spock has last seen him in person, though his appeal is still pleasant. “I think you two have met. Don’t think I don’t see you two communicating with your eyes. No eye-rolling until I’m out of the vicinity.”

Spock is amused. His younger counterpart, however, is exasperated. “Captain.”

“Commander,” Jim replies, in good humour.  “T’kahr,” he adds, glancing at Spock again. 

Spock’s eyebrows and that of his counterpart’s lift only somewhat. “I was unaware you spoke Vulcan.”

“Lieutenant Uhura’s been kind enough to give me lessons, though I’m still on vocabulary.” He flashes a grin. “How’d I do on pronunciation?”

It is not an entirely disagreeable prospect for him to continue. “Acceptable, though curious that your first attempt would be to acknowledge my age.”

“Better than your real name,” Jim laughs heartily. He turns to his First Officer, who looked only slightly chagrined. “Lighten up. I thought you two spoke already.”

“We have never spoken,” comes the reply, and if the polite and pointed expression on that young face is anything to go by, that is the story they are going by. He inclines his head. “Though I shall endeavour to as much as I can to your liking, Captain.”

“Damn right, you will.” Jim grins at the dryness, making no further comment on the subject. Clapping his hands together, he looks as delighted as a child. “What’s on the agenda today?”

“Elder Selek and I shall be connecting Starfleet servers to the databases that will be set up here in Vulcan.”

“Huh, sounds kind of boring.”

“‘Boring’ is subjective, Captain. It will be wise for you to return to the ship to speak with the Ambassador to authorize the shuttles.”

“Wait, how come you know this?”

“The agenda, Captain.”

“Nobody gave me an agenda.”

“I would presume it would have been no different than your regular duties back on board the ship,” Spock’s younger self replies coolly. “Or perhaps the fact that you still expect a senior officer will regulate your duties to you.”

“I got the ship and Pike’s protective father speech over it. I’d say that counts for super secret meetings without the sass, thank you.” Jim reaches out and plucks the PADD from his First Officer’s hands, bumps the sensor against his own, and then returns it. “Since you two are going to be up to really Vulcan knowledge know-how stuff, like Spock said, I won’t keep you for long.”

“I must thank you for your consideration.”

Jim points, with a grin. “Hey. I could have you court-martialled for that.”

His counterpart raises an eyebrow. “By what charges, if I may ask?”

“Article 89, being a smartass to your superior,” Jim replies immediately. “Or disrespecting me, whatever. We’re probably at that stage. I’ll ask Lieutenant Uhura.”

“You would not involve the Lieutenant in an irrational discussion of this nature.”

Jim grins wider. “Oh, I would.”

It is achingly strange to watch his younger self and this Jim Kirk interact. And yet, very different. They exchange in almost arrogant fashion against each other, confident instead of playful and full of intent. Direct may not describe it well enough; instead it is the ease with which Jim gestures and shares his smiles, the slight irate amusement and tolerance displayed by this Spock.

After Jim departs, Spock’s younger self states, “He is aware of our relationship.” While the intonation of the phrase does not rise up at the end, Spock understands his intention.

“Yes.”

“You communicate with him frequently.”

“No more or less than I have with you.” Though Spock suspects that now to be untrue, with Jim’s newly evolved ease.

The silence that follows no more or no less indicates that this reply is far from satisfactory. A quick glance reveals his younger counterpart’s unrelenting stare. Without a word more, Spock escorts them to the sanctioned-off area. He introduces what will need to be done, and the Spock of this universe inputs into the servers that require thrice as many authorization codes into the machinery.

They work in silence. Twenty-fourth century technology has since evolved dramatically from the equipment that they set up, and the chips that the young Spock draws forth from a kit are recognizable, though a slight difference from Spock’s time. Precision sets in as well as routine, punctuated occasionally only by his younger self’s requests for confirmation, and Spock’s own questions on the nature of an updated file and the like.

His younger self interrupts, seemingly out of nowhere. “You served on the _Enterprise_ , in your time.”

Spock pauses, hands on the console as he sorts through and categorizes various plants from the reports of the scientists and Starfleet records to the Vulcan ones. It feels bare and new despite having been worked on for several weeks. Large and daunting, though not impossible. “Yes.” He turns his gaze upon him. “I have found it an experience.”

The same stubborn gaze Spock recalls his mother having referenced time and time again looks back at him. “The Captain is convinced of amiability, between you and he.” 'Amiability', Spock notes. A curious emphasis on what already is present.

“Then he is not mistaken. If you mean to warn me, I must inform you I am amenable to it.”

“Your purpose here,” Spock continues, growing more and more disgruntled. “Why did you remain? My responsibility— ”

“Is to the path you have chosen, not the path you feel obligated to take.”

His younger self requests a meld later; suspicion and emotional influences colouring his actions. Spock suspects what he confirms during it: this one has not been meditating. Thoughts superfluous and hinged with trace amounts of negativity flow and settle however harshly they have been organized methodically. Defensive anger jags out even as this thought passes through.

_I do not require it._

Not now, is the implication. Spock knows himself well enough to feel the familiar spikes, the slight crack of a bone with an instinctive twitch of the fingers. Mind melds between family are often intimate with what they share, even more so between bonds formed between strangers. Spock has had more quiet time than ever to reacquaint with himself figuratively. He recognizes the desolate purposeful isolation of his own mind in one that is far too many decades young for it, as much as his younger self searches boldly for answers to his own questions without attempting first to heal.

His younger self’s familial bonds are weak, perhaps purposefully undone. The imprint of Sarek’s mind is absent, perhaps touched only a few times during childhood, but it is there enough that Spock will remain envious long after. There is none for Spock’s mother—she was never able to, in this universe. And this Spock has never trusted himself with anyone after the aftermath, not even Lieutenant Uhura who comes to his mind when Spock tries to seek out possibilities.

_Reconnection, at the very least. It will be beneficial. To spend time with them, to interact, as humans do._

There exists, after all, no being in the universe who should suffer alone. 

 _I do not require it_ , his younger self repeats. There is a multitude of repetition here in this space, Spock finds. Within the constraints of this mind are simple, very rigid things, as though a mantra may be the only way by he lives. Were Vulcan minds walls and a labyrinth, this one would be a chamber filled of spiralling pathways and traps.

Meditation alone never served to alleviate Spock’s own emotions as a child; he learned tolerance the way a youth learns to find his own individuality and comforts amongst the familiar and the unknown. The way Vulcans have dealt with the potency of their own since Surak. For this Spock and he alone, the way they grieve carve themselves into resentment. His younger self’s anger describes an urge to destroy something and ruin something beautiful into the state that he is in, even if it may be his own mind.

If logic is the desolate wasteland that he so once lauded, emotion is the beauty of the universe that Spock had never known so much of until the moments of reflection spent in between meditation. Suppression of emotion to a point of attempted rejection is counterproductive. Amplified emotion unchecked and unreconciled destroys all that has been built.

 _Ah, but every Vulcan must,_ Spock reasons, at last, caught up in the strength of emotions he has not felt since he has embraced his own humanity in order to become truer to the Vulcan way of life he had chosen; that the human part of him does more than simply react—it aids in control more than his younger self knows.

 _Not I,_ his younger self replies _. Nor you. Not in so simple of matters._

 _We require much more beyond what teachers and peers have taught us as the sole solution_ , he answers. _The frequency of the specific outlets is no fault of our human half._

What Spock does not expect is a frantic sudden memory reacting to his mind.

\--

 _“_ _You have missed the opportunity that was offered to you,” Spock’s father says. He stands behind Spock and has been doing so since the beginning of this small test, yet his criticism feels sharp and unexpected despite the fact that pointing out Spock’s mistake is only logical. Otherwise would be besides the point of this exercise. Sarek continues: “It is a human characteristic to hesitate when making a sound judgment that goes against ethical theory. You need not count that against yourself.”_

_Spock feels his ears burn. Young with only a few years into adolescence, his abilities are not up to par with expectations. Being psi-null, and furthermore less Vulcan, would have lessened the shame of this disappointment perhaps—but now the emotion peeks through a very half-Vulcan him and curls sourly at the bottom of his stomach. Spock quashes it, and stares at the problem on the screen in its entirety, watches with wordless ignominy as his father runs through the simulation as Spock should have._

_Sarek, Spock realizes, has only left 30% of the planet’s original colonial population alive. The solution Spock had offered had allowed for 70%._

_“_ _But why must one must decimate the population?”_

 _“_ _We have not decimated it.”_

 _“_ _Yet the end result remains by its very definition. Do we not celebrate variables in the universe?”_

 _“_ _This is not a scenario by which we can apply Kol-Ut-Shan.” Sarek reverses the recording of Spock’s own simulation. The numbers that end by the last day trail backwards to the hundred on the first. “Evaluating survival based on evolution is only primeval. By attempting to stretch scarce food resources amongst the colony, you have only prolonged starvation and encouraged the spread of disease that runs rampant in the colony. It is logical to provide only so that the best number may survive.”_

 _“_ _I am in disagreement,” Spock insists. “We are directly responsible for the chain of events that leads to the destruction of a colony. Your own simulation suggests that optimal health is the necessary prerequisite to the survivors. We at least consider the factors of—”_

 _“_ _Spock,” his father says. Spock’s mouth closes. “Ethical and moral theory often find themselves in disagreement when utilitarianism is considered. You must not let emotional reaction take over your rational logic.”_

 _“_ _Father,” Spock replies, and to his surprise his voice has hardened, angrily, biting. “I do not believe it is a fault of my human half. That is all,” he adds._

_Sarek gazes at him and folds his hands solemnly behind his back. Grateful for the brief interval to gather his thoughts, Spock mirrors that position._

_“_ _You must understand,” says his father at last. “The needs of the many far outweigh the needs of the few. It is preferable to have survivors over casualities, and to ensure that those who do survive will be capable of doing so long-term.” Numbers on the monitors lay there stark against the screens. “Surakian principles teach against selfishness and discourage emotional impulses interfering with logical reason.” Or perhaps you will resemble Sybok, is the implication. Spock ignores it._

 _“_ _Why must I study this? The colony we are concerned with has only recently been approved. ”_

 _“_ _Why do we study history, or the teachings of those before us, Spock?” Redundant, Spock bites back. It is to good measure he does for speaking out in turn is illogical. “It may seem erroneous to dwell on the past. It may also seem self-sabotaging,” Sarek continues. “But there are lessons we derive from it that serve to educate us to a greater understanding, and progress made from such reflection. To evaluate the risks, and take attempts to reduce them.”_

  _Spock stares again at the educational simulation based off data from past colonies and problems, and says no more._

_Both of them are unqualified to make such judgments. This fact becomes clear when news of the Tarsus IV colony breaks out._

_\--_

“The control of your First Officer is admirable,” Spock makes light mention of, after the day has passed. Data entry into the databanks has been a successful endeavour. He predicts that by the end of the three weeks allocated, successful reintegration with Starfleet servers will be a reality.

The more significant focus, however, should be placed on the half-Vulcan in question.

“Tell that to my neck,” Jim says, but he doesn’t seem bitter, merely contemplative and willing to listen. “Everything all good?”

\--

The senior science team under his alternate self’s direction is made up similarly and furthermore act similarly too. They receive him politely, but leave him to his devices when it becomes clear that Spock has no request to make asides from inquiring after their projects.

“Elder Selek.”

Spock turns to greet his alternate self only to stop.

There is no anger unlike Spock’s own. Many the decades spent as an ambassador has not changed his preferences nor his goals and beliefs. However, it has been years too, since Spock has lost control of himself, or had anything he had fought hard enough against to allow it to control him. The potency, the raw of it does not hit him until his younger self stands abject and says, “You told him.”

It is very forward, though unspecific. Spock calmly places his hands behind his back. He contemplates feigning ignorance, but that would either hurt or aid whatever had come into play. “I did.”

His younger self stares at him, making neither move nor sound, until:

“Thank you.”

And, just as swiftly, he departs, shoulders stiff.

\--

 _“_ _I must confess, that, I do not know,” Spock whispers._

_Therein comes a laugh; robust, warm. Thick fingers tighten over his own, but never more than firm. Close. “I’d never thought I’d hear that from out of your mouth, Spock.”_

_“_ _Is a word specific to only one culture, Captain?”_

 _“_ _I wouldn’t know. Presuming you would correct me if I’m wrong, I might attempt a guess.” A  pause._ “T’hy’la, perhaps.”

Spock’s eyes open.

Fingers curl gently around his wrist, the flat of them smoothing the back of the skin. “Hello, old friend,” Kirk says, and Spock knows him. Every day he has pored over the hologram. Every day he has listened and watched and memorized features and a voice he would have never heard again. Great emotion fills him.

“Jim.” The warmth in Kirk’s face is every bit as real. “You have not aged a day.”

Kirk keeps his mysteries. “The years have been lonely to you.”

Spock does not respond. Instead, he clasps that hand and wakes.

\--

“When was the last time you saw a doctor?”

“When I deemed it necessary.”

“Congratulations,” Doctor McCoy says. “You are the reason I lose sleep at night. Sit up.”

Spock raises an eyebrow as he pulls himself up from the biobed. “I would doubt that, doctor,” he replies. “As we have only recently met.” In this universe. A lie of technicality.

“Don’t knock off the brilliant bedside manner,” McCoy replies, frowning, checking off some boxes and the like from his PADD. “Doctor M’Benga should be around to see you in a moment once he’s finished his rounds.”

“Or me,” Jim says, walking in. Dust flakes around his clothes, and his face is alight. It brings Spock great pleasure to see it, though there is logically no reason why. “Because I’m me.”

“Don’t bother the Vulcan Elder, Captain,” McCoy says automatically without looking up. “Med-kit’s in  my bag, tri-ox compound is third from the bottom left. Hadn’t had time to take the damn things out.”

“What if I needed to personally talk with the Vulcan Elder, Doctor?” Jim asks. He crouches down despite it, no protest on his lips. With practiced ease he withdraws a hypo, twirling it out and around his fingers when he straightens.

“Then I would ask the Captain if the Doctor would have to leave for confidentiality reasons. Again.”

Jim’s eyebrows lift and lower thoughtfully. He nods. “You do that.”

The look McCoy gives Jim is something and nothing short of extreme distasteful displeasure. Jim, on the other hand, grins brightly even to the scowl. As Spock does not possess a moment in which he would not be welcoming towards such dynamics, he continues to allow himself to feel amused.

“Elder,” McCoy states, turning back to look at Spock. Unfortunate that at present, he is not akin to his prime universe counterpart, who could, over the years, grow to recognize the nuances of Spock’s expressions. “I present onto you the option of exercising the ominous right to ban him from the premises at any moment.”

Jim wrinkles his nose in what Spock judge to be distinct displeasure. “Well, that’s rude.”

“Not everyone has a tolerance to you,” McCoy replies, reaching out to likely pinch his cheek. Jim dodges. “You’re lucky he doesn’t just—give me that before you hurt yourself.” He snatches the hypo away from Jim, and injects his neck with practiced precision.  “Play nice.”

“Hard to do it when you try to kill me,” Jim shouts at his departing back, rubbing at his neck, though he does not look at all disagreeable to the concern.

“As a doctor, he would be in violation of his oath,” Spock says lightly.

“Don’t take me literally,” Jim replies, but Spock has succeeded in eliciting a smile. “Anyway, talked to your dad. He’s intimidating, by the way. Great attitude, otherwise.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. That Jim may have contacted his father is a thought that derives a sudden need to meditate.

“Vulcan eyebrows? Wears a robe? Answers to Ambassador?” Jim waves a hand. “He was busy with shuttling Vulcans and helping calm anyone down who needed it, but I managed to ask him if he would hear me out in person to talk about Spock. Other Spock,” he clarifies. “About what you told me yesterday.”

“You informed him expecting him to take action?”

“Did he?” Jim asks, intrigued. “I have no idea. I was going to give it a day, then pull my authority over Spock and order him some meditation.”

Spock remains curious. “And if that had not succeeded?”

“Uhura. Human tag-team, whatever is necessary.”  Jim settles down. “So how are you feeling? Your chart,” he lifts up the PADD, skimming past the information, “says that you’re not doing much better than you were last time. Have you been getting enough or whatever it is you usually have?”

Assuming his chart differs no more than Spock can approximate, no such other person other than Doctor M’Benga and other Vulcan specialists would be truly qualified to make judgements on his health. “To answer that question would require me to ask the same one in kind.”

“Did Bones talk to you?” Jim asks exasperated, as he pulls at his sleeve, down at the wrist. “I told him I’m fine. They’re just dreams. What’s your blood pressure, by the way? I’ve always wondered.  Copper-based blood, and all.” 

“You are nervous,” Spock notes. “And perhaps uneasy.”

“What?” Jim looks up from the screen. “About what?”

Spock studies him. Reflects that perhaps, there is the possibility he may be incorrect. The realization that perhaps there are too many variables, too many things that have changed to assume the rest will remain the same. It is over-familiarity dictating his actions. “Forgive me. That was forward.”

“For you?” Jim grins. “I dunno. If that’s forward, I’d hate to know what you call mind-to-mind.”

Spock inclines his head, amusement at familiar indications and variations of Jim’s natural ability to flirt. “Nevertheless.”

“I know forward, and probably the me in your universe did too. And that sure as hell wasn’t when I don’t know what it’s about.” He leans against the console, lithe form casual. A cheeky grin that never ceases to charm spreads on his face. “C’mon, tell me. What am I supposed to be concerned about?”

“I believe my direction of thought may be slightly biased at the moment.”

“Just tell me.”

“Jim,” Spock says, and pauses.  His younger self would have no doubt demanded an answer. Jim no doubts expects something different or similar. “I know.”

If not for the slight flicker of his eyes, or the subtle way Jim shifts his weight to straighten himself up a bit further, one might have almost assumed there was no issue. Certainly, Jim feels no need to diffuse otherwise.

“Okay.” The smile he offers is polite, his voice placed so purposefully light that it could have been mistaken as genuinely flattered. “What do you know?” It is a bluff, recognizable by any standard.

Spock waits patiently, and the lackadaisical expression continues.

“Okay, fine. So what do you want me to do about it? What are you expecting?” The questions he asks are not out of curiousity; Jim prefers no answer or lecture. He seeks instead to find Spock’s position, suspicious of his intentions. It is not a confirmation of a record that boasts of a constant disrespect for authority, but an affirmation that Jim has lived a life filled with people attempting intervention. Being one more is not what Spock intends.

Jim grows antsy with no response.  His fingers begin to tap on the console, begins to fidget. “It happened. I got over it.” His eyes flicker from the screen he has long since abandoned to his pacing.

“I apologize. This conversation is uncomfortable for you.”

Jim pauses. “No,” he says, clipped, voice brimming in impatience. “I’m fine. It happened a long time ago.”

“It does not necessarily exclude the fact.” No. This is something beyond. Spock inspects him, attempting to understand before it dawns on him. His suspicions had hit perhaps somewhere around Tarsus IV. It pains him to realize that he may be correct, that this too is reality in this world.

“Hah. Well, you know me.” Skin on his face pale, and expression drawn, Jim does not speak for a moment. When he does, he says, “I expected it. ” It is the similar circular logic. He is buying time.

“To what you expected of others?”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me. I don’t need that with you.”

“I would not attempt to.”

“It’s different,” Jim replies at last, voice short. Anger rides in his posture. Jim’s face snaps to his. “If you can’t get it from that, then I’m not the guy you knew—I’m not that hotshot Captain with commendations under his belt. Plain and simple.”

“I have never presumed to know you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Jim,” Spock says, patiently. He understands, as much as he is able, but even times like these he finds the unpredictable leaps of association that Jim makes are startling in their extremities. The build of agitation in the air is being amplified by some form of train of thought he cannot follow.  “Your history is your own. As is your past and are your experiences, valid as they all are. ”

The reference to the colony is not enough to make Jim flinch, but his expression darkens enough. “There was more.”

“Yes.”

“It’s not me,” Jim says, skittish, tone rising. “It’s fucking not.”

“It has defined you and shaped you into who you are,” Spock says gently, “and that is all. In no way is it you; you are not wrong in that.”

Jim is frightened of what knowledge Spock possesses and what he may do with it; that much is for certain. However the uncertainties of key elements remaining the same or changed in some way, what Jim most likely suspects is that Tarsus IV is no longer a kept secret. It is raw for him, to know that someone else has possessed the knowledge before he ever deemed it fit to be shared.

He is not full of anger; long since has that left him. Unfairness dedicated to surviving on a planet, for his father to be ripped from him in this world, and his mother to pick up the pieces. A brother, Sam, he had made light mention of during their dinner. A brother Spock suspected he had lost on one of the many ships that had been sent to Vulcan.

Jim does not require discreetness, nor soft words.

“To whom must you prove yourself?” Spock asks at last, when Jim still shows no sign of leaving. If he had wanted, he would have done immediately after discerning Spock’s purpose. Jim’s fingers twitch before he curls them into fists, but his gaze never leaves. “If it is to strangers who do not know you, their reach will never follow you. If it is your father’s memory, you have long since honoured it.”

“Honoured it?” The look on Jim’s face has now twisted. “You don’t know me at all, do you?” A strangled laugh emerges from out of his throat. He shakes his head, derisive. “God. Why are we even having this conversation?”

The sting, the bite, the reminder that this is not his universe and this is not the Jim Spock had once known—yes. It is different, this. Jim knows him well, through their brief encounters, what it is exactly that Spock values and what exactly will wound him most.

“It may be best finished here,” Spock agrees, as a response. For there is no real ending he can see where this ends well for both of them.

“What?” The laugh cuts off abruptly as Jim sneers. It pains Spock to see a look of mockery on his face; it is a defensive mechanism that needn’t ever have been learned. “You’re actually—Can’t take it, can you? I’m not anything you expected.”

“I do not know, truly.”

“No, you do.” Crashing down back on the seat, Jim crosses one ankle at the knee, hands drumming against the armrests. “Or maybe we both thought something. I keep thinking you do, and you keep thinking you do, but you don’t.” Jim shakes his head, shoulders shaking with repressed laughter. “You don’t get it. Who do you see here?  You don’t even get _me_ , and what I’ve done, and you’re here, talking to me, like you think I’ve done something to deserve everything. _I’m_ the one with problems. Do you know what I—”

“Stop.” Spock’s fury, though he does not intend for it, erupts. He takes a step closer and then another, because it appears that if words will not get through to him, physical proximity and intimidation may well serve. “You are better than this, and though you may desire yourself ill will or harm in any form you may find it, you will cease immediately. I will not stand for it.”

The only sign Jim has been taken aback is the slight pause he takes, eyes flickering back and forth between Spock’s posture and his face—it must show. Spock’s emotions must show.

“ _Wow_ , won’t stand for it, huh?” Jim’s voice is filled with scorn and mockery, bated, purposefully attempting to challenge him. “What, like I’m supposed to listen to you?”

 Sadness now. The anger has subsided, and leaves Spock empty as it always has. What victories Jim seeks to gain from reminding Spock of what he has lost, whether or not Jim is aware of it—Spock pulls himself back, and the tension in Jim’s body language neither stiffens further nor relaxes.

“You may,” Spock tells him, heavily, “as you always have, do whatever it is you please. You have no obligation to me, Jim, I assure you of this.”

Jim expects more from him now. It is patently obvious in the slight tilt of his head, the way he looks up at Spock in as equal fierceness as his acerbity. Perhaps an echo of the explosion, of a Vulcan losing control; the raw angry indignant memory from the surface of Jim’s mind on Delta Vega—the half-Vulcan commander who marooned him, left him stranded on an ice planet for mutiny. He fights, this Jim, more than Spock has ever known his own to.

For all that he is willing to give, there are things, it seems, that Spock will never be able to provide, and presently he cannot find it in himself now to inform him. What dignity he possesses directs himself to withdraw.

“Well?” Jim demands. Only his eyes betray how unsure of himself he feels; of his panic that perhaps he has gone too far.

He would not be wrong, but tactfulness requires that Spock not address it. Jim wishes to settle things by the brashness of emotional whiplash, because it is the language he has grown up learning, and it is the easiest communication spoken by the ones he has cared about enough to anger himself over. Anything Spock will say now will only be met with more. He has no further intention to provide Jim more reason.

What he has done, he has done too much.

Spock inclines his head, in acknowledgement. The sadness drains him more than his anger; it has been a long time, and it remains true that Jim never fails to erupt strong emotional responses from him. “I am finished, my friend. You will hear no more from me.”

And so he departs, holding the trembling leaden remnants of his control, and does not look back.

\--

_The memory of Rayna remains buried in the spaces in Jim’s mind. Sweetness and intelligence, the happiness of love and delight at finding another, distress and self-loathing—all these sentiments fall through and around. Kirk’s conflict between the knowledge of what could have been and what outcome prevailed. In the end, Spock’s objective curiousity is answered by the complexity he digs through, and his subjective sympathy remains silent._

_To say that Kirk’s mind is not stimulating…_

_Kirk’s memories are flattering, romantic in nature, gentle in thought. Occasions of a touch or an expression are catalogued; sentiments associated with an expression. Spock feels the phantom ache and the loss, seeks out the thread of the seed._

_There is no doubt that what Spock does is invasive. He is betraying the trust of his friend and Captain, breaching barriers of a man untrained and incapable of defending his own mind. It is necessary, he tells himself. Though she was not a woman, the pain Rayna causes him is enough it will remain._

_If he should do this, attempt to deny Kirk his suffering; it is only logical._

_Spock closes down on the memory, and pulls it within himself. Even as he does so, he can feel the lightened emptiness left in Kirk’s mind; the space open that will one day again be filled._

_It pulls at him, seeking, needing. Spock concentrates on gently pushing them closed, ignores and pushes away ad silences what else encourages him to linger. Kirk will find his person to walk the beach with. It will not be now._

_“_ _Forget.”_

_\--_

Often the colonists of New Vulcan may be curious enough to wander onto the areas and help where they can. It is to Spock’s utmost pleasure and honour that T’Lana be among the few students available to help with data reintegration. That her meditation is now successful, that she is capable of individualized steady emotional control at such a young age is laudable. He tells her as such. His younger self disapproves at the same time he is honest forthright with the children when they ask him questions—Spock in this universe, finds a difficulty relating with the approval needed of children. They were both required to grow up stunted in such areas, though Spock has no doubt he will learn with time.

“I have spoken with the Captain on various occasions,” T’Lana makes mention of a few days later. Currently she sits with her legs folded, PADD on her lap. She is in deep analysis of the materials that can be found on this new planet, capable, and justly so; Starfleet Academy and the Vulcan Academy of Science basics are taught within her curriculum as they are for other children of appropriate age.

Often the classwork that Vulcan students are assigned to do that involves mathematical calculation come later on in life; early childhood expects a more direct focus on emotional control meditation, and the like. Though there are otherwise difficulties when her logic alone only allows her to make conclusions to a certain point, Vulcan children are willing learners. She listens to the constructive criticism given to her by Spock’s younger self when Spock is busy, but when he is not, it is Spock to whom she prefers to defer her completed tasks. Though of little import as well, her companions seem to share this tendency.

It is a small, uninteresting fact. Spock finds he receives much reassurance from this knowledge regardless.

“The Captain?” It surprises Spock. Since their conversation in sickbay, it has been a rare sight to see him. When it is Jim who leaves, he wishes to be found or left alone. When he has been left, there are a great deal of things he does. It surprises Spock thus, that Jim would choose to interact with other Vulcans instead, though he supposes the surprise is illogical. They are on New Vulcan. With whom else would he converse?

T’Lana nods. She looks over at her classmate’s PADD, and reaches over to provide corrections. “Affirmative, Elder,” she says. It may be her youth that ensures she be more talkative than any other Vulcan Spock has known, but like all children, his interest only encourages her.  “He has asked on occasion your state. I have informed him you are no less functional than normal.”

“Would it not betray his trust to share this?” Spock asks.

“He did not forbid me,” T’Lana replies. For her, that is enough. “I have also informed him on our progress of our work. I understand that this also may be forbidden, as he is an outsider.”

Ah, there may be a rebel in her yet. Spock shares a look with his counterpart. It is a constant then, as a young child to ask for permission after the fact. It reduces her own culpability and allows her more than enough form of permissible negligence. “Your logic is sound,” Spock replies, amused by her protectiveness of Jim, however much he attempts not to allow the memory of their last encounter colour his actions. “I affirm it is indeed forbidden.”

“Elder,” Spock is interrupted by his younger self, who looks curious. He pulls him away politely, and the children concentrate back on their own work, though their eyes wander occasionally when Spock looks at them. “Why do you not forbid her from continuing?”

“Direct inhibition is unnecessary to development. We need not teach otherwise. It may, as humans say, ‘come in handy’ when the time so arises.”

“I concede to your point. Nevertheless, it remains unwise to encourage this.”

“Her diction allows her this margin of freedom,” Spock responds, raising an eyebrow. Irony, it may be, such that his younger self has yet to recognize this when it had been their defining trait as children. “Perhaps you might consider it as well.”

He returns back to the station, and reluctantly the younger Spock does as well. It is a great deal fascinating to witness him in deep thought. Though his work continues to be exemplary, he no longer speaks with exception of an accusing, “You are calculative.”

“That is axiomatic,” Spock replies.

Puzzled, the children make comment. “Your compliment serves no logical purpose,” Senn states in perplexed honesty. T’Lana nods in agreement, though keeps her respect in her silence, however much it is encouraged for Vulcan children to speak their minds. Spock’s younger self, however, does not respond.

Not logical, yes, Spock thinks in amusement. Without purpose, no.

\--

“ _Jim, what have—”_

 _“_ _We’re fine, Bones.” Kirk does not look at him, seemingly intent on one purpose still. “Give us a moment, won’t you?”_

 _“_ _What on earth do you need a moment for?” McCoy demands. “Jim, I’m telling you—”_

 _“_ _A moment,” Kirk repeats, staring down at the PADD in his hand. “I’d tell you I’d ask again, but I’m afraid my own patience has run short with our Vulcan friend.” It seems McCoy senses the request enough._

 _“_ _Don’t be too harsh on him,” McCoy replies, looking at Spock. Spock carefully stares straight to the front. “I don’t know the complete details of he’s done, but he’s done it for you and the ship. That’s a damn good more than enough.”_

_Kirk doesn’t respond. McCoy leaves, though not without another glance back._

_“_ _Captain,” Spock says, standing at attention._

_Kirk sits heavily down on the abandoned seat. “Should I ask you to explain yourself, or should I hold this report in good conscience?”_

_“_ _Do you ask for my opinion on the matter?”_

 _“_ _Yes,” Kirk replies, somewhat irritable, though no less frustrated. The Captain is often privy to rhetorical questions, though Spock suspects this response would only contribute negatively. “That’s why I ask.”_

 _“_ _Then you shall do neither, Captain,” Spock replies. “The report will be forwarded to Admiralty as is.”_

 _“_ _Spock, you know I can’t send this. This isn’t what happened.”_

 _“_ _On the contrary. It is exactly what has happened. To write otherwise would be a false official statement and therefore be in direct violation of Starfleet regulations.” Kirk’s face grows darker in expression. Spock pauses, attempting to find a more relatable phrase. “I find I am not fond of guilt.”_

_Kirk lifts up his gaze. “At ease, old friend,” he says at last, heavy, though he smiles. “Sit with me. And if you are willing, perhaps you will say you are not fond of regret as well.”_

_\--_

The children and Spock’s younger self depart by 1800 hours. Spock checks their work, though there is not much error if at all. Statistical data and information will rarely yield otherwise with exception of mistyped and new species.

There are few indelible memories of the five year mission that Spock does not consider nor long for when he is alone. Spock would complete such work in the privacy of his chambers on the _Enterprise_ , isolated purposefully from his science team in the dead of the night. The Captain would interrupt at a specific interval, either when finished with his own work, or incapable of sleep and requiring company.

When Spock looks up, there is a familiar figure leaning against the doorframe. Arms folded, legs crossed slightly. He is a remarkable sight. 

“Captain,” he says, though his heart pounds steadily at his side.

“Have you slept in the last twenty-four hours, Spock?” If it is a deliberate mirror of a question that Spock has asked some time ago, it would not be surprising.

“I have meditated.” 

Jim frowns, reluctant to continue. “Is that good enough? I have no idea if that’s good enough.”

Spock views him with some apprehension and willingness. “Affirmative,” he replies at last.

“Yeah?” Jim nods to himself. “Cool.”

“I was not aware you made rounds at 500 hours,” Spock says. Studying him, he wonders if Jim has been unable to sleep for some time now, long before insomnia was ever brought up. If the dreams had in fact, been Tarsus IV.

“So you can tell time,” Jim replies wryly. “But it seems you can’t do what everyone else does and go to sleep.”

“I must return the statement to you, old friend.” He spots it then, the uncomfortable shift of Jim’s shoulders, the expression that crosses over his face before it disappears.

“Okay,” Jim says. “So we’re doing this. Are we doing this?”

“It may be mutually constructive for elaboration.”

 “I’m used to it,” Jim says, after a moment, eyes flashing. “To people like you. And then at the same time, I’m not. I don’t know what you want.”

“You may ask,” Spock offers.

“No,” Jim replies, pushing himself off from the doorframe. “I don’t care about permission. I just need answers.”

Spock studies him further, attempting to find emotion and from that draw an idea on how to proceed. He finds none, carefully veiled in neutrality. “And you believe I will provide them.”

Awkward, Jim moves only a few steps until he stands before him. He is tall, but Spock is taller still. He looks up. “If you want,” Jim says. “I mean, if you’re still willing. You didn’t catch me at the best time.”

“Would there have been a better time?” Spock asks.

“No,” Jim admits. “Probably not. I don’t have anything to go off by, okay?” His tone is defensive, though he attempts otherwise.  “Give me a break.” 

Spock studies him, and under his scrutiny, Jim shifts. “Do you commonly apologize in this roundabout manner?”  he murmurs at last.

“I don’t do apologies, so yeah, I guess I do.” Flippant. This detail is something that he loses no sleep over at night, when he is capable. Jim looks at him, eyes forward. There is intent that Spock is having difficulty reading. “So how about it?”

“That you would put an ultimatum on this,” Spock replies, “is illogical.”

“Yeah, I figured. I just didn’t want to assume anymore. I expected a lot from you—that wasn’t fair. Also, this shit is a lot harder than just having sex, just saying.”

“You are emotionally intelligent and capable of fostering a rich emotional relationship with anyone you choose.”

“‘A rich emotional relationship’?” Jim repeats. Wry, small smile. Almost flattered, perhaps. “You mean like a friend?”

Spock inclines his head. “As you need me.”

Jim licks his lips, considers something. Spock takes notice of him, the uniform and dirt that remains pressed against his skin, the way he suddenly leans back and cracks his knuckles in an attempt to busy his hands, and then brings one of the hands rub at his mouth.

“I’ll take you as I can get you,” he says at last. Though I don't know if you’re better or worse than Bones.”

“I do believe the doctor was in search of you at 1900 hours last night.”

“For what? To stab me to death?”

“I am unaware of his reasons, but I suggested you may be found in the recreation rooms.” Spock looks pointedly. “As he has never found you on the ship, I would assume it succeeded.”

Jim laughs. “Okay. Definitely better, then.”

“Jim.” Gently.

Jim shakes his head. “I just,” he begins, then stops. “I figured,” he starts again. The sunrise on his face paints out the blemishes, faded marks where scars and acne once had been, and instead emphasizes the thickness of his nose, the blond of his hair. He lowers his eyes. “Huh.”

“You do as you can and are able. You are young still.”

“And what about you?” Jim asks. “I kind of feel as though you’re just letting yourself get left behind."

Therein lays the truth of the matter.

To hear it voiced by another person in a way that seems painfully inadequate.

“It is not for me,” Spock replies and glances up at the horizon. On Minshara, the sight would have been no different. “This universe is not mine, nor is the _Enterprise_ and her crew. I have already outlived the friends of my own world, and that of their children. I have already met you; and met and seen and spoken with friends I had once thought lost to me forever. To claim for more than my allowance would be greedy. Selfish.”

Jim hesitates, before closing his eyes. “Spock,” he says, wearily, before shaking his head. He opens his eyes again, clear, blue, not hazel. “It’s not selfish.  Go to town and adopt the hell out of this place. You can do that.”

“You are biased.”

A laugh. “It’s me talking here. I’m the worst cynic for second chances, bias or not.”

Spock says, “My story has ended, Jim.”

“No,” Jim answers. He steps closer, hand reaching out, ghosting past wrist and fingers sliding against the back of a hand. Spock feels it, the electricity, the intent of the touch, the complex swirl of emotions that almost overwhelm him. “That’s not right.” Jim holds his hand firm in a misplaced need to ground him, but fully aware of what the gesture means to Spock's people. "That's definitely wrong."

\--

 _“_ _My father says you have been my friend.” He studies the face before him. “You came back for me.”_

_The man’s voice is warm. “You would have done the same for me.”_

_“_ _Why would you do this?” For what purpose? What gain?_

 _“_ _Because…” a flicker of n his eyes, “the needs of the one out_ weigh _ed the needs of the many.”_

_An echo. A semblance of memory, but not enough to banish the uncertainty._

_He must return. He must—_

_“_ _I have been,” he echoes, “and ever shall be…your friend.”_

_Delight. A myriad of emotional transference he sees when he turns to look. “Yes! Yes, Spock.”_

_To hear his own name spoken by this man is the greatest of pleasures. Flashes of memory now, the chamber, Khan, the risks—I’m sorry, Doctor. I have no time to discuss this logically…Remember!—“The ship,” he says, unsure. “Out of danger?”_

_“_ _You saved the ship.” Uncertainty. “You saved us all. Don’t you remember?”_

_And he does, then. “Jim.” Remembers this man on the opposite side of the radiation chamber, regret and yet ease at the knowledge that this man was kept alive and safe. Remembers days and nights and illogical human tendencies of a five-year mission and the charming appeal of Captain James T. Kirk._

_“_ _Your name is Jim.”_

_Jim is smiling. An expression that he will trace in his mind. “Yes.”_

_–-_

Jim.

\--

 

 

end.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  I don't have a lot of time for a thank you dedication at the moment because I'm nearly falling asleep, but for a placeholder in the place of the inevitable long big bang thank yous of mine, gotta thank Fiona for waiting so damn long for me (I hope you liked reading this!), Syph for emotional encouragement and being extremely lovely, Momo for even more emotional encouragement and the willingness to put up with me and being frigging incredible and sacrificing personal time to work on betaing, and also to Museaway, the mod of SPBB who pretty much has overseen every other big bang I've done so far and granted me such wondrous extensions. Bless y'all.  
>  
> 
>   
> Thank you all for literally supporting my terribly slow writing ass all the way to the finish line! Memory alpha and beta are my best friends and this fic should probably be known as the fic where McCoy isn't allowed to stay in the rooms when Kirk and Spock need to talk. Also, I used a meta from tumblr ([this one](http://queenofthemoonlite.tumblr.com/post/71554911242/clayair-is-a-tribble-glayish)) heavily enough, as well as--I believe it was a summary on Memory-Beta--about the conversation that took place between T'Pring and Spock about the exact thing that transpired in the fic. Tried to find a comic version of it but google-fu skills are low, but I think it's [from this comic here.](http://huntressed.tumblr.com/post/51902240632)  
> 


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